The Back Streets of Heaven
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Before “You’re Welcome”, Eve presents a plan that would save Cordelia’s life. But a supernatural intervention (i.e. Doyle plays Marley) makes Gunn wonder if it’s the right thing to do.


Historian's Note:  This would happen sometime between _Just Rewards_ and _Destiny_.   

The Back Streets of Heaven 

            "So we're decided, then?" Angel asked, surveying his team critically.  Every one of them had a straight and stern face; every one of them was willing to follow this out to the end.  Failure was not an option; he could see it in their eyes.

            "Do you even have to ask?" Fred said.  Her big blue eyes looked like they would shed tears at any moment.

            "Cordeila means a lot, to everyone in this room," Lorn observed.  "You don't have to sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers' - I read the vibe loud and clear.   This group is ready to go for it."

            "Good," Eve said, dryly.  She seemed compassionate but focused, and even a little eager to send them on their mission.  "When she gave birth to Jasmine, the faux-deity took most of Cordiela's life force in order to create the body of a mature woman.  Now, to put it crudely, your friend is hemorrhaging life force.  That's why she's dying."

            "But that doesn't make sense,"   Gunn pointed out.  "I thought we all agreed that Jasmine needed Cordy alive to stay alive."

            "What do you think all the people she killed were for?" Eve asked.  "Jasmine was infusing Cordiela and herself with their life forces.  Now that Jasmine's gone, her hemorrhaging is becoming fatal."

            "But why has it taken so long."

            "I can only assume that your friend had a lot of life in her."

            The room got quiet and dark grief seemed to fill the air.  "Gee," Eve said, laughing nervously, when the heaviness of the mood overwhelmed her.   "Guess my assumption was right."

            "But this Balm of Athba, it can help her?" Angel asked.

            "It'll close the wound," Eve explained.  "She won't wake up right away, but, eventually, she will."

            "Let's go," Angel said, pushing past Eve toward the big double doors leading to foyer.  Eve knew he was going to push through them, both of them, dramatically and then rush to the bottom floor and get in the fastest of his very cool cars and drive to Santa Helena in broad daylight.  Go to the cave of purgatory and fight his way to the Athba Guru to demand his sacred balm.  Angel was so self-righteous and, at times, insane, that he probably thought he could do it all himself that very day.

            "Hold on there, hero," she said, with enough authority in her voice to actually make him hold.  "You can't do this tonight."

            "Why not?" Angel demanded.

            "Because, among other things, you have a lawfirm to run."

            "Gunn, I'm taking the day off, your in charge," the vampire barked. Then, he turned back to Eve, offering her a false smile.  "Happy?"

            "This is serious," Eve insisted.  "It will take serious preparations.  You'll have to ask the Guru for his Balm in perfect Ancient Hina'chies.  Then, in Hina'chies he's going to give you a riddle of the ages and You'll have to solve and give him his answer."

            "In Hina'chies?" Angel asked.

            "You guessed it," she told him flatly.

            "But that language has been dead for thousands of years," Wesley said.  "There's no way of knowing how the words would be pronounced.  Everyone who ever spoke it is long dead."

            "Wait," Lorn said.  "That's not exactly true . . ."

            "What do you know?" Angel demanded eagerly.

            "I know a guy," Lorn started.  "Well, a demon really.  A Jalasiit demon, to be exact."

            "Correct me if I'm wrong," Wesley said, "But aren't Jalasiit demon's eternal?"

            "Turns out they are, cuz," Lorn said.  "He used to come into my bar all the time.  He had the most beautiful tenor voice, could have done wonderful Sinatra.  But for some reason I'll never understand he insisted on singing Cindy Lauper songs.  I remember one night when he was having issues with his daughter . . ."

            "Can eternal beings have children?"  Fred asked.

            " . . . and every time it was his turn to sing he belted out 'Girls just wanna have fun' with the bitterest intonations you could imagine."

            "Lorn!" Angel snapped.

            "Oh, yeah," the phylian said, coming back to the subject.  "Anyways, his thirtieth wife was Hina'chian.  They spoke it at home.  He's gotta still know it and he owes me.  Left a bar tab a mile long."

            "Great," Angel said.  "Contact him."

            "I'll tell him we'll sue if he doesn't help us out."

            "And you thought managing a law firm wouldn't be fun," Eve said.  She was smiling in that way that was so charming but, at the same time, seemed totally untrustworthy.

*   *   *

            When Gunn entered his office, the phone started ringing.  

            "Damn it," he muttered as he jogged over to his desk.  He thought he'd told the secretaries to hold his calls. He leaned over the desk and snatched the phone from its cradle.  "Charles Gunn, Attorney at Law."  He never got sick of saying that.

            "Hey Man," a man's voice with a distinct Irish brogue said.  "We need to talk about Cordeilia."

            "Who is this?"

            "Name's Doyle.  This is important, can't wait the night."

            "You're name is Doyle?"  He thought it'd probably be rude if he asked the man why that name seemed so familiar, like a name he should know.

            "Look, I'll be in the back room of the Cox sports bar on the corner of Westchester and Vail," Doyle said.  "Come."  

            There was a click and the line went dead.  Gunn felt a thrill of chills rush down his spine.  He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he needed to hear what this Doyle was going to say.  But there was the unmistakable feeling of something supernatural about the whole conversation.  He hung up the phone slowly and wandered out of his office running, literally, into Wesley at his door.

            "Charles?" he asked, concern saturating his British accent.  "Is everything all right?"

            "Uh, yeah," Gunn said, forcefully pulling himself out of his daze.  "Yeah, why wouldn't it be?"

            "It's just you look like you've seen a ghost." 

            "Well, yeah," Gunn answered, coming to himself.  "Spike was hangin' around the lobby anoyin' the mail guy when we left Angel's office."

            "It's a figure of speech."

            "Yeah, but, no."

            "Excuse me?"

            "Look, Wes, does the name Doyle mean anything to you?"

            "Doyle," he said slowly.  "Doyle . . ."

            "It's familiar," Gunn insisted.  "God, it's on the tip of my tongue."

            "What brought this up?" 

            "I just got a call from him."

            "From Doyle?"

            "Yeah.  He wants me to meet him."

            "Do you know why?"

            "He said it was about Cordeilia."

            "Cordeilia?" Weasly asked in a whisper.

            "I'm meeting him at Cox sports bar," Gunn said, surprised that he'd already made the decision.  "I want you to come and watch my back."

            "I have to go with Angel . . . ."  Wesley started.  

            "Why?  It's not like you could learn the language for him.  Besides, if this Doyle guy says something worth listening to, the big guy might not have to go through the whole 'riddle of the ages' thing." 

            "Well," Wesley said hesitantly.  "Our meeting with the Jalasiit demon isn't until after midnight, I suppose I could slip away until then."

            "Thanks man," Gunn said, slapping his friend on the arm.  "Lets go see a man about a semi-deity."

*   *   *

            Cox Sports Bar was about as dull a bar as Gunn had ever seen.  It was by L.A.X. and, clearly, designed for the traveling businessmen; clean and neat, with a mix of tables and barstools as well as an array of bar games, from Darts to Pool.  Wesley said it was the closest to the Platonic Ideal of a bar as he'd ever seen.  Gunn said Wesley was nuts, 'cause the Ideal bar would be fun and happening instead of sterile and lame.

            "So," Wesley asked.  "How do you want to play this?"

            Gunn perused the patrons at the bar, mostly overweight, disgruntled businessmen who didn't have any better way to spend the night as they waited for their connecting flight to leave in the morning.  He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he didn't see it.  "Got any quarters?"

            "Quarters of what?" Wesley asked, still scanning the non-descript crowed.

            "A dollar, brainiack.  I want to play pool."

            "How different is that from billiards?" 

            "I du'know," Gunn said quickly.  "But, I'm thinkin' that if Doyle doesn't make himself known before my game's up we split."

            "Shall I join you?" Wesley asked, pulling out his wallet.

            "He wanted to talk to me," Gunn said.  "I'll draw him better if I'm alone."

            "Right," Wesley said, opening his wallet.  "How many quarters do you need?"

            "Give me what you got," Gunn said, holding out his hand.  "I'll pay you back at the office."

            "Right," the Englishman sighed, handing over a dollar fifty worth of change.  He watched as Gunn sauntered over to the pool table, inserted some coins and started a game with himself.

*   *  *

            "Hey mate," an eerily familiar Irish brogue said from behind Gunn.  The lawyer turned around and saw a short man with pail skin, dark hair and penetrating eyes.  "If I were you I'd go for the three in the corner."

            "The three in the corner?" Gunn asked slowly, examining Doyle critically.  He didn't know what he'd expected Doyle to be, but certainly not this.

            "Yeah," the Irishman said, walking around the table, examining the balls.  "Seems obvious to me, but then, I was never very good at geometry, or any other kind of math for that matter."

            "What are you good at?" Gunn asked assuming this mystical messenger was going to communicate something essential soon.

            "I'm fairly good at drinking," Doyle said with a hearty smile.  "And I'm not too bad at trivial pursuit, especially the Hollywood edition."

            "What are you?"  Gunn asked baffled.

            "Well now," Doyle laughed, "Not pullin' our punches are we?"

            "What do you know about Cordeilia?"

            "I know her favorite color is royal blue.  I know she sang 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend' at her grade school talent show.  I know she likes Carrot Banana smoothies with chocolate muffins for breakfast."

            "What do you know about her now?"

            The playfulness in Doyle's eyes dimmed.  "I know you need to let her go."

            "Let her go?"

            "Tell Angel to let her go."

            "Let her go where?"

            "Home."

            "I don't understand."

            "She's at the very gates of heaven, Charlie.  Beyond pain, beyond grief, she'd be safe, she'd be happy, clothed in the splendor she's always longed for but at last deserves."  The Irishman chuckled.  "And she looks damn good in 'em too, let me tell you."  

            "So, you want us to kill her?" Gunn asked, horrified.

            "No man," Doyle said, shaking his head.  "Your hearing me wrong. I'm saying let her go."

            "Ie. die." 

            Doyle gritted his teeth and sucked in a breath.  "Let me ask you this; what, exactly, do you think you're fighting for?"

            "_We're_ fighting for good," Gunn answered with confidence.  "What I don't know is what _you're_ fighting for."

            "You're fighting for souls, man," Doyle said passionately, leaning over the pool table so that the overhead lights cast his face in an uncanny hue.

"Every day, every action.  Every demon you slay, every spell you produce, it's to win souls."

            "You talk like their some sort of lottery prize," Gunn scoffed.  "Like the PTB's are up there hedging their bets with a champion here and a hero there."

            "Why was Jasmine evil?"

            "What?"

            "Answer me, why was Jasmine evil?"

            "Well," Gunn stuttered.  "She killed people."

            "But she brought the end to war and hunger, she saved millions.  Tell me again why she was evil."

            "She possessed us," Gunn said. "She took away our free will."

            "Free will," Doyle laughed. "Honestly tell me it's not wasted on ninety nine out of a hundred people.  Most want to go with the flow, so long as we're happy.  Lord knows that's all I wanted, to be happy.  And Jasmine made the whole world happy.  What, I ask you, is evil about that?"

            "She just was, ok?" Gunn said harshly.  "I saw her the way she really was, rotting and decrepit.  Evil."

            "So everything that's ugly is evil?"

            "I know in my gut."

            "You're gut, well, that's a just measure I'm sure."

            "Are you trying to tell me that she wasn't evil?"

            "No, on the contrary, all the things I mentioned, all the shimmer and the baubles, they don't matter one way or the other.  What matters is souls.  Now, imagine a little girl starving to death in Africa, hell, imagine hundreds of them.  They're souls are clean, innocent and their reward is a beautiful plain with no more suffering and eternal joy.  They've earned it, haven't' they, after all that?  But think of the poor bastard's who got consumed by Jasmine.  She didn't take their bodies, or just their bodies I should say.  She fed on their souls.  So, regardless of how good and just they were, they fell into her darkness and were kept there, by her, until Conner released them."

            "Conner?"  Gunn asked.  He'd been following, even sold on, the logic until this point.  "Who the hell's Conner?"

            "Conner's not the important one," Doyle answered cryptically.  "The point is that Jasmine was not evil 'cause a what she did to those alive.  It's what she did to the dead, to their souls.  She stole them, and there's nothin' worse, more evil, then that."

            "So," Gun said after a moment.  "Steeling souls is like a capitol crime in the spiritual world."

            "A group of vampires stole you're sister's soul," Doyle said not uncompassionately.  "You're tellin' me you don't think they deserve to burn in the lowest level of hell."

            "They deserve worse," Gunn answered dryly.  "And how the hell did you know that?"

            "I know a lot of things," Doyle answered.  "You're in the business of saving souls, Charlie, and never has a more honorable profession existed.  But once the soul's are saved, you can't keep them.  You have to give them back to the source."

            "Who, the PTB's?"  Gunn asked.  "God?"

            "They were created for good, and to good they should return.  Cordial's there, mate.  Don't take her away."

            Gunn took a deep breath.  "All right.  I can accept that.  But how do I know you're telling the truth?  How do I know that this mystic thing Angel's gonna try will damn her soul and not bring her back?"

            "Oh, it'll bring her back, no mistake about that."

            "But," Gunn said slowly.  "It's not like she's lost when she comes back.  Her soul is still good, it's just . . . it's not in the celestial treasury or whatever."

            "That'd be true.  But just ask Spike what it was like for Buffy when she was brought back.  Not to mention the PTB's, as you call them, have other plans for our Mrs. Chase."

            "How do you know all these things?"

            Doyle smiled mysteriously.  "Cordy wasn't the only one with vision."

            "So, we could bring Cordelia back, no harm, no foul, but you're saying we shouldn't."

            "I'm asking you, for her sake, to let her go.  Magic does things, rips at things what, naturally, shouldn't be touched.  Don't rip at her. Don't tare her apart."

            "Tell me if I've got this straight, it'll bring her back but not in an evil way.  Only it'll hurt her, but not really, because this whole bringing back process won't hurt."

            "'Hurt' is a word with more than one meaning.  I'll tell you again, talk to Spike about Buffy.  You'll see what I mean."

            "If Spike understands, why'd you contact me, not him?"

            "'Cause you're the one with open eyes."

            "Open eyes?"

            "Look, he didn't know there were vampires until one bit him, he didn't know they were evil until he turned his mum into one and she tried to kill him.  But you, not only did you see the vampires, but you saw to it that everyone else saw them as well.  Not only can you see, but you can show, and that is a rare thing indeed."

            "How do I know you're not lying to me?" Gunn said.  "How do I know that she's not in terrible pain, that somehow Jasmine still has her soul and this balm or whatever is the only way to free her?"

            "You don't," Doyle said, shrugging.   He was slowly backing out of the light.  "But, I'll remind you, that evil usually parades as what you think of as good, while good itself can't help but be honest." 

            "I don't suppose, right or wrong, I'd ever even know.  Would I?"

            "I'd see to it you found out."

            "So, that's the best you can offer me?"  Gunn asked.  "Take it on faith that a weaselly looking Irishman is a force for good and stop a process that will bring my friend back from the grave so that she can fight evil again.

            "There are other ways to fight evil," Doyle interjected.  "And other warriors to take her place."

            "And the only assurance you give me is that some day I'll know if you were good or evil."

            "You know what the three things are, Charlie, that define Good?"

            "What?"

            "Faith, hope and love."

            "Yeah, I've heard that somewhere."

            "You love Cordelia, that's clear.  So do I.  You hope she gets better, and that's noble, even if you should be hopin' for what's best for her.  What you need to do now is have faith."

            "Have faith in you?"

            "Have faith that the illogical and incomprehensible is also the right and the good." 

            There was a loud crash on the other side of the bar.  Gunn turned instinctively to see what made the noise.  A waitress had bumped into a patron and dropped a tray full of beer bottles.  The bar burst into applause for her clumsiness and, with burning cheeks, she took a bow before kneeling down and starting to clean her mess.  

            "That's a pretty big . . . " Gunn started, turning back to his conversation.  But his voice trailed off as he realized that Doyle was gone.   He stared, blankly at the empty space across form him and felt that same wired supernatural chill run down his spine.

            He turned around, slowly, and started walking towards the bar where Wesley was sitting.  He glanced back at the pool table as he sat down, but the mysterious Doyle had not reappeared, not that Gunn had expected him too.

            "Giving up already?" Wesley asked as the young lawyer sat down next to him.

            "Giving up?"

            "On our friend Doyle?"

            "He was the guy I was talking too," Gunn said. 

            Wesley stared at his friend blankly.

            "Short white guy over by the pool table."

            The description didn't seem to register.

            "I was talking to him the whole time."

            "I was watching you the whole time," Wesley said.  "And I didn't see anyone."

            "He showed up as soon as I got over there. Then, a second ago, he just disappeared."  

            "I didn't see him," Wes said, shaking his head.  "He could have been some sort of specter, I suppose, or cast some sort of spell rendering him visible only to those he wants to see him."

            "Yeah," Gunn muttered, turning back to the shadows and hoping against hope that he'd see the mysterious messenger.   "I guess."

            "I think we need to go back to the office," Wesley said.  "Tell the other's what's happened."

            "Sure," Gunn said, nodding.  "There's no reason to stick around here."

*   *   *            

            Gunn sat, slumped in one of the Law Firm's plush leather chairs.  Wesley, Fred and Lorn were all discussing what his unusual conversation with the selectively-visible Doyle might have meant.  

            "I don't like that he thinks good should be illogical," Fred said.  "Is just me, or is that a sign of craziness?"

            "The forces of good do have their own peculiar ebb and flow," Lorn pointed out.  "I mean, a Vampire take over Wolfram and Heart and suddenly the law firm has a conscious?  What sane person saw that coming?"

            "What worries me is that this being, whatever it is, is only manifesting itself to Gunn," Wesley said.  "If it truly has something important to tell us, why not come out into the open and tell all of us?"

            "He said he loved Cordelia," Fred pointed out.  "If that's true, maybe he knew her, and maybe Angel knows him."

            "Which begs the question, why go to Gunn and not Angle," Wesley said.  "What is he trying to hide?"

            Gunn never got to hear the theories. He felt a presence behind him and, before he could turn and see the spectral vampire walk through the wall, he heard him say, unenthusiastically, "Boo."

            "Hey Spike," Gunn said. "Glad to see you're taking your ghosthood seriously."

            "Yeah, well," The cockney muttered.  Crouching down, so that he and Gunn were eye to eye, the ghost asked, "What are they going on about?"

            "Stuff they think is important.  Stuff they believe will make a difference."

            "And it won't."

            "Not if they keep talking about it like they are."

            "Oh well," Spike sighed.  "As long as the children are amused."

            Gunn smiled at the diminutive joke.  Then, turning serious, he said, "Spike, can I ask you something."

            "Lord knows I can't stop you."

            "About Buffy."

            "Lord knows I wouldn't want to."

            "What was she like?"

            Spike laughed, "Ever heard the phrase 'tempest in a teapot'?"

            "Yeah."

            "She was like a bloody tsunami in one of those old green Coke bottles.  All curves and kick."

            "When she came back from the dead . . ."

            "You mean, when she was pulled out of heaven?" Spike asked.

            "She was pulled out of heaven?"

            "Yeah," Spike said, laughing harshly.  "Her friends assumed that, after saving the world more times then I think even she could count, she'd get sucked into hell.  They assumed Hell would take her."

            "So they brought her back."

            "And she was a rutting mess," Spike said.  "They assumed it was the torture of hell that'd done it, but it wasn't.  It was the torture of earth. She couldn't deal." 

            Gunn was about to ask another question, but he was interrupted by Harmony timidly sticking her pretty blond head into the room.

            "Um, Gunn?" she said, loudly enough to be heard over Wesley's current exposition on who or what Doyle was.  "Am I interrupting?"

            "Nothing I didn't want interrupted," the young lawyer said, pushing himself out of the chair and walking quickly past the conspiring trio.  "What is it?"

            "You've got a call," Harmony said.  "From France."

            "I'll take it in my office," he said, pushing past her.  

            "Gunn," Wesley called, causing the young man to pause at the door.  "You really should be here for this."

            "I got a call from France," Gunn said with a shrug before turning and leaving the three of them to discuss his mystical encounter without him. 

*   *   *

            "Charles Gunn," he said crisply, picking up his phone.

            "Hi," a woman's voice said.  She sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place it.  "This is Kate Lockly.  I've got a message here saying you needed to talk to me?"

            "Kate Lockly?" Gunn asked, baffled.  "Angel's cop friend?"

            "Ah, yeah," Kate said.  She sounded a little surprised herself.  "And you're Angel's assistant, aren't you, the kid from the street?  It's been a while sense I've heard you're name."

            "Yeah," Gunn answered, taking a deep breath.  He had a feeling that Doyle was behind this call, and that thought made him oddly nervous.  "How are things going for you?"

            "All right," Kate said in a voice that made it clear she hadn't really expected small talk.

            "So, you're in France?"

            "Brittany," Kate said.  

            "Vacation?"

            "Hunting vampires."

            "Oh," Gunn said.  "So, do you do that pretty much full time now or . . ."

            "Yeah," the ex-cop clipped.  "Kate Lockly, vampire slayer.  That's me."

            Gunn nodded, even though Kate couldn't possibly have known.  He wondered what exactly he was supposed to ask this woman; which questions would prove Dolye's claims, which ones would debunk them?  

            "So," Kate said, cutting through Gunn's suspicious silence.  "You guys are running Wolfram and Heart now?"

            "Yeah," Gunn said.  "Who saw that coming?"

            "It almost makes me wish I'd stuck around."

            "Trust me," Gunn said.  "It's more worry than it's worth."

            "Well, is the firm still evil?"

            "Yeah, pretty much. But we're weeding it out."

            "So, tell me, did Angel lose his mind?"

            "Sometimes it seems like it," Gunn said.  "But he's holding up.  Keeping the faith."

            "That's good," Kate said.  "When I left he was going through a pretty dark time."

            "Yeah, but he goes through a lot of those."

            There was another pause. 

            "I don't mean to sound rude," Kate said.  "But, ah, it's kind of early here and I've been out all night so . . ."

            "You want to get to business."

            "Why did you call me?"

            Gunn suddenly found his mouth dry.  "Did," he asked hesitantly, hoping this was the right question to ask.  "How well did you know Cordelia Chase?"

            "Well, we weren't friends, if that's what you're asking," Kate said.  "I knew her through Angel."

            "But you knew her, you saw her, you had conversations."

            "Yeah," Kate said.  "How is she?"

            "She's dying," Gunn said.  "That's sort of why I called you."

            "I'm so sorry," Kate said.  Her tone made it clear she wasn't just saying that to be polite.  "I know how much Angel relied on her, this . . . it's got to be though."

            "Yeah," Gunn said.  A well or of worry and grief for Cordelia that he hadn't felt for months suddenly swelled up inside him.  He took a deep breath, forcing it back down, and forced himself to continue.  "But, I need to ask you about Doyle," he asked.  

            "_Doyle_?  Wow, that's a name I haven't heard in a while."

            "So, you do know him?"

            "I knew him," Kate said.  "He's dead."

            "Dead?"  Gunn asks.  "That explains some things."

            "Can I ask what's going on?"

            "It's complicated," Gunn said, not willing to go into the lurid details of his conversation at the bar and the mysterious nature of Cordelia's coma.  "But this guy, Doyle, what side was he on?"

            "Do you mean, was he good or evil?"

            "Yeah."

            "He was defiantly good.  As I understand it, he was the one who convinced Angel to become a detective."

            "Do you think, I mean, would you mind telling me more about him."            

            "Well, to be honest I don't know that much about him.  He died before I found out about vampires and demons.  You should really talk to Angel.  They were good friends."

            "They were friends?"  Gunn asked.  "Like, buddies?"

            "Yeah," Kate said.  "You sound surprised."

            "Well, it's just . . . Angel's had the people he's saved, and the people he's got working for him.  I'm pretty close to the man, and I wouldn't call myself his friend so much as a trusted associate."

            "Angel can be intimidating," Kate said.  "But I don't think Doyle was intimidated."  She chuckled softly and, Gunn though, sadly.   "One night, while I was working on this case with Angel, I got pretty drunk and he ended up taking me back to his office to sober me up.  It was the only time I actually spent time alone with Doyle."

            "And?"

            "He regaled me with stories about his drunken Irish relatives," Kate said.  "He was a good guy." 

            "And he knew Cordeilia?"

            "They were close," Kate said.  

            "How close?"

            "He adored her," Kate said.  "And I think she loved him."

            "Were they dating?"

            "Not that I know of," Kate said.  "But I didn't know them that well.  I do know that Cordelia changed a lot after Doyle died . . . Angle changed too.  There was a levity in that office those first few months that just sort of disappeared after Doyle was gone."

            "Levity?" Gunn asked.  "That's pretty scarce around here.  It always has been."

            "Not at first," Kate said.  "Doyle took himself lightly, and he loved life.  How many people in our social circles could you say that of?"

            It dawned on Gunn that such a description might fit Lorn.  But the Phylian had never brought a prolonged, almost natural, sense of levity to the group such as Kate was describing.  Yeah, sometimes he made it easier for them to laugh at the outrageousness of their torrid, supernatural, soap opera.  But he never made it feel like a comedy, not a melodrama.  

            "I think that mirth rubbed off on Angel," Kate continued.  "There are other factors, I know, but I think Angel was a more approachable, funnier guy when Doyle was around."

            Kate seemed to be caught up in her reminiscence, she kept talking.  "They, um, they helped this girl who was being stalked one time, and I took her statement afterwards.  To make her feel safe, Doyle stayed with her throughout the day.  She said he was very kind, very considerate.  And then, that night when I was a little drunk, he held a mobster at gunpoint to protect me.  He, um, he called me once to report that counterbaned frog legs and quail tongue was being served at some East down town restaurant.  

            "After that, I didn't see Angel for a while.  And the few times I did, Doyle didn't come up.  I mean, why would he?  But then, I found out what he was, what Angel was, and I got mad.  I didn't understand that he could be good, I didn't want to see any shades of gray.  Doyle was gone by then, something I'd noticed but not really cared about.  Then, after some effort, I was able to manipulate evidence enough to justify arresting him and, um, I asked him, during an interrogation, what ever happened his old friend Doyle.  I honestly thought Angel killed him.  And then when Angel said he died, and that it was the kind of death where death certificates and coroners reports and grave's aren't an option, I just assumed I was right.  I should have listened to the way Angel said it, I should have noticed how raw that wound was.  But the only thing I could see was that daemon he has rattling around inside him. 

            "A lot later, when I got through angry adolescences and, um, I realized . . ."

            "That Angel wasn't the root of all evil?"

            "Yeah," Kate said, laughing softly.  "Actually, it, ah, it wasn't until Angel saved my life, kept me from killing myself, that I, ah, I found out what really happened."

            "You tried to kill yourself?"

            "Angel and I were both going through a dark time," Kate said.  "But, that night, he saved me, again, and we sat and talked.  I think, if I'd been able to be that honest with him, instead of being angry at him for so long, maybe, things . . . anyways, you wanted to know about Doyle.  Angel told me what really happened."

            "What really happened?"

            "There was a bomb," Kate said.  "These demons made it.  It would incinerate anything with human blood in a quarter mile radius, leaving just demons."

            "Crafty buggers," Gunn commented dryly.

            "The thing was armed, and it was going to kill this shipload of refugees, as well as Angel, Cordelia and Doyle.  The only hope was someone going to disable the bomb, but that meant certain death from the anti-human radiation.  Angel, ever the martyr, was getting ready to jump.  But Doyle punched him."

            "Doyle punched him?" Gunn was flabbergasted.

            "I told you, Angel didn't intimidate him," Kate said.  "Doyle knocked Angel down, then jumped onto the bomb, disarming it and, ah, dying in the process."

            "So," Gunn after a moment.  "Doyle's a hero?"

            "Yeah, he is."

            "He died for Angel and Cordelia."

            "Yes."

            "And this whole thing, what was Angel Investigations, he started it."

            "Yeah."

            "So," Gunn said, feeling that he was finally getting to the question that really mattered.  "If you saw him today, and he told you to do something that sounded, well, insane . . . would you do it?"

            There was a pause.  Eventually, Kate said, "I think that what seems illogical or incomprehensible is often the truth.  But I guess, it would depend on why he asked me, and how."

            "What do you mean how?"

            "I mean, if did it in a way that seemed like Doyle.  In a bar, or some back ally, or by the docks.  If he was clothed in radiance and surrounded by bright light, I'd get suspicious."

            "Because, 'evil usually parades as what you think of as good, while good itself can't help but be honest'?"

            "That's pretty much what I've seen."

            "What if he told you he wanted you to let someone die so that their soul could go to heaven?"

            "That seems like something I could do," Kate said.

            "What if it was someone you cared about?"

            "Like, Cordelia?" Kate asked.

            Gunn didn't answer.

            "It's not about lives, Gunn," Kate said frankly.  "It's about souls.  If Doyle came back from the dead to tell me to let someone he loved join him, I'd do it.   He already died for her, so we know he wants what's best for her.  And he came back, so we know that death isn't the dark pit we can sometimes think it is.  I . . . I don't think Cordelia will fade into nothing.  I never really knew Cordelia, but I do know she had a fire in her soul.  She would never abandon Angel, and she wouldn't give up on the good fight.  The minuet her soul is loosed from that valley-girl body, she's going to become a powerful force to be reckoned with.  At least, that's what I think."  There was a pause.  "Does that help at all?"

            "Yeah," Gunn said his voice hoarse.  "Yeah, it does."

            "Good," Kate said.  "I'll light a candle for you."

            "Thanks," Gunn said, swallowing hard.  "I think I need all the light I can get."

*   *   * 

            "Don't," Gunn said.

            Angel looked at the young lawyer, clearly confused.   Eve was the one who asked, "Don't what?"

            "Don't go tonight," Gunn said.  "Don't try and save Cordelia."

            "You're kidding right?"  Angel asked.  

            "No."

            "Cause it's not a funny joke."

            "I'm dead serious."

            "And you're about to be just plain dead, if you try and stop us," Eve said harshly.  Angel turned and looked at her, clearly surprised by her vicious threat.  

            Gunn wasn't scared.  He knew he was doing the right thing.  "This is beyond our hands, Angel.  This isn't something we should be looking for."

            "What are you talking about?"

            "What are we here for?" Gunn asked passionately.

            "You save people," Eve snapped.  "People like Cordelia."

            "We save souls," Gunn snapped back.  "And Cordelia's is saved already.  If we bring her back here, we'll be doing something horrible.  If she comes back, she has to do it on her own."

            "Jasmine hurt her," Eve said.  "She has a cosmic wound that can not be healed with bedrest."

            "Why are you saying these things?"  Angel asked curiously, taking a step toward Gunn.  The young man felt very intimidated, he wished he had a little bit of the dead Doyle's bravado.  

            "'Cause they're true," Gunn said.

            "But, a few hours ago, you were all gun-ho on the whole saving Cordelia idea."

            "If I still thought we were saving her, I still would be."

            "She'll die if she doesn't get this balm," Eve said.  "If that's not saving her, I don't know what is."

            Angel took another step towards Gunn, who didn't move.   The two men were close enough to hold their conversation in whispers.  "Who called you from France?"

            "Kate Lockly."

            "Why?"

            "Because I needed to talk to her."

            "Why did you need to talk to her?"

            Gunn opened his mouth, fully expecting to explain about the mysterious phone call, and the meeting at the pub, and Wesley's inability to see, and Kate's long confession.   But as he looked into the vampire's eyes, he remembered what Kate had said, about Doyle being the vampire's good friend and the words caught in his throat.  He couldn't tell Angel that Doyle had chosen a stranger to talk to over his old comrade in arms.  That wasn't the message Gunn was supposed to deliver, but if he told the truth about everything that had happened that night, it was the only message Angel would hear.  

            "Because, she understands two things; that the methods good uses are often illogical and incomprehensible and that evil puts on a good face, while good is just plain honest."

            Angel blinked.  "That's what Kate told you?"

            Gunn nodded, "She also said we're in the business of saving souls."

            "We are," Angel said.

            "Cordelia's is saved already," Gunn said.  

            "We need her," Angel said.  There was desperation lining his voice.  

            "I don't think we do," Gunn answered.  All the grief of losing Cordelia and all conflict he'd felt that night started to rise up in his chest and the street-smart warrior had to fight back tears.  Cordelia had saved his life, he saw that now, and maybe his soul too.  By pulling him ever closer under Angel's wings, she'd kept him from becoming reckless, from becoming bitter.  She'd forced him to make connections, with Fred, with Wesley and Lorn.  She forced him to be a person who was part of something big and important, instead of a lone man on an island trying to hold back a hurricane.  "I don't want to let her go," Gunn said.  He tried to sound cool and collected, but he couldn't keep his voice from trembling.  "But I don't think I should pull her out of heaven just to keep me company."

            "She can do good down here," Angel said, trying to make the argument sound stronger then it was.

            "I think she can do good up there, too," Gunn said.  

            A muscle in Angel's jaw twitched.  "I don't know that I can let her go."

            "You're strong," Gunn said, putting his arm on Angel's shoulder supportively.  "And we're stronger together.  We can do this."

            "Do what?"

            "Nothing," Gunn said.  "We stand here, doing nothing, while Cordy goes to meet her fate."

            "But what if it's a bad fate?" 

            "Are you really afraid our girl's gonna be sent to hell?"

            "No," Angel admitted, after a moment.

            There was another weighty pause.  Finally, Angel said, "I just wanted her back so much."

            "I know."

            Angel took a deep breath and let it out slowly, which must have been a habitual action, in that the vampire didn't need to breathe.  "I don't want her to fight this fight alone."

            "Sometimes that's the only way we can fight," Gunn said.  "And sometimes, dying is the victory not the defeat."

            Angel smiled humorously.  "That'd be the illogical and incomprehensible part?"

            "It's the true part, too," Gunn said.

            Angel turned, looking at Eve and asked, "Why are you suddenly so concerned about Cordelia?"

            "I'm trying to help you save the life of someone you love," Eve said.  "Gunn, for whatever reason, is trying to stop you, and you suspect _me_ of being evil?"

            "Well, I know your evil," Angel said casually, "I'm just suspecting you of implementing and evil plan."

            "This balm will save her life," Eve said with confidence.

            "What will it do to her soul?" Gunn asked.

            "That's not my department," Eve clipped back.  

            "That's what matter's," Angel said.  "I think we could stand to do a little more research."

            "Cordelia is at death's door," Eve said passionately.  "She could die at any time."

            "Earlier you were told me we couldn't do this tonight," Angel said.  

            "Well, clearly you can," Eve answered.   "And I think it's pretty clear you should."

            "Why?"  Gunn asked.

            Eve looked from one hero to the other, clearly angry at them both.  "You'll do it, won't you? You'll just let her die."

            "I'm gonna have faith," Gunn said.  "That the powers that be want her to wake up, she's gonna wake up."

            "What about you Angel?"

            There was a long pause.  Gunn looked at his boss expectantly as Eve did the same.  This was the moment of choice.  He held Cordelia's life in his hands, and, by the expression in his eyes, Gunn could tell the vampire didn't like it.

            Finally, Angel looked at Gunn. "I'm going to trust the judgment of those who've earned it."

              The young lawyer smiled.  He wondered if this deep feeling of assurance was Doyle's way of letting him know he'd done right.

            "Cordelia will die," Eve said passionately.  "And her blood will be on your head."

            "Everybody dies," Gunn said.  "And if Cordy gets her share of peace a little sooner 'cause of me, I'm not gonna lose any sleep."

            "I can't believe your doing this," Eve said.  "You're supposed to be the heroes, save the damsel in distress."

            Angel didn't answer her.  He turned around, heading back to the elevators.   "Eve, don't go anywhere," Angel ordered.  "I'm sending Wesley, or someone from his department, down here.  We've got a chance to learn a dead demonic language tonight and I don't think we should waist it."

            "Yes sir," Eve muttered bitterly, glairing at Gunn.   Once the vampire was gone, she walked slowly towards him with a furious glint in her eye.  "You seem pretty happy," she said.

            "Feels good to do good, like I always say."

            "You're a piece of work," Eve said.  "That balm would have kept her alive.  You just condemned your friend to death, and you talk about doing good."

            "Well, you know what Hamlet said," Gunn prompted.

            "More things on heaven and earth then are dreamt of in my philosophy?" Eve scoffed.  "I don't think so."

            "No," Gunn said, before shoving his hands and his pockets and walking past her, towards the elevators and the higher ground.  "I can tell a hawk from a handsaw."

*   *   *

            Doyle strolled through the magnificent city of heaven and basked in the pure joy of it all.  The buildings glittered with white marble and glass.  The streets of gold shimmered.  The trees were all in bloom and the thick floral sent made every breath a little piece of ecstasy.    

            The streets were crowded, but not overly so and every face Doyle saw was as familiar and welcome as an old friend.  But he didn't stop to talk to any of the thousands of good and beautiful souls that inhabited these divine streets.  There was only one soul he wanted to see.  

            Doyle veered off the main promenade to some of the lesser used pathways and eventually wandered to the back streets of heaven.  

            They were not breathtakingly beautiful like the main squares and thoroughfares of the paradise, but their was an innate quaintness to the small buildings, made of smooth sandstone painted bright and cheery colors with flower boxes and shudders over the windows.  They lined both sides of the winding streets with no names or numbers.  If you didn't know just where you wanted to go, it would have been impossible to find anything in the maze.  But anyone who had business in one of the small, one-room, buildings, just knew where they were going, as naturally as if they'd lived there their whole lives.

            Doyle's destination was a small, yellow building, with red shutters and a green door.  The windows were wide open, letting the smell of geraniums in, and letting a pretty lullaby float out.

_Day is done,  
Gone the sun,  
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.  
All is well, safely rest,  
God is nigh._

            "You have a lovely voice, Joyce," Doyle said, leaning through the window and smiling at the maternal figure sitting on the edge of Cordelia's bed.

            The woman looked up and smiled.  "Well, thank you Allen," she told him sweetly.  "It comes from years of practice."

            "Sing to Buffy, did you?" He asked.

            "Not so much her as Dawn," Joyce said softly.  "My baby had such terrible nightmares as a child."

            "Didn't you really not have her?"  Doyle asked.  "I mean, wasn't she not quite real?"

            "I didn't really have her," Joyce admitted.  "But she was real."

            "Hum," Doyle said.  "And how's our girl?"

            "Still alive," Joyce said, almost despairingly.  "She was strong."

            "She'll be stronger still once she dies," Doyle said.  "Once she's free."

            "So it worked then?" Joyce asked.  "They're not going to try and pull her back?"

            "No," Doyle said, shaking his head.  "They'll let her go."

            "Oh, that's such good news."  Joyce looked like she was about to cry.  "I wish I'd had someone to send to stop Willow."

            "That was hard, to be sure," Doyle said, nodding compassionately.  "But it wasn't Buffy's time yet.  You knew that.  It was supposed to be Dawn, who never really lived in the first place."

            "I know," Joyce said.  "I just wish they could have been spared that pain.  Both of them."

            "The pain of living?"

            "Her memory was faded," Joyce said softly.  "She didn't know all the joys she had, and still, she was crazed with grief for all she was forced to leave behind."

            "It made her stronger," Doyle said.  "And in the end it was her choice, even if she can't remember she made it."

            "I know," Joyce sighed.  "I still miss her."

            "She'll come when it's time."

            Joyce turned to Doyle, smiling warmly.  "I know that too."

            Doyle stood quietly for a moment, letting Joyce savor the thought that, someday, her daughters would join her in paradise and all the darkness and pain that filled the life of the slayer and her family would be a distant memory.

            "Do you want to sit with her a while?" Joyce asked suddenly.  "She seems to wake up when you're around."

            "Yeah," Doyle said eagerly.  "Yeah, I could do that."

            He walked to the door, only to have it open in front of him.  "Hey Denis," he said to the young man who stood, always, a silent sentry over Cordelia's unconscious figure.  

            "Hi," Denis answered softly.

            "Denis, sweetie," Joyce said as she stepped out of the doorway into the narrow street.  "Why don't you come take a walk with me?"

            "I don't like to leave her side, Mrs. Summers," Denis said nervously.

            "You know nothing can happen to her here," Joyce said, putting a comforting, motherly, hand on his arm.  "And you're not leaving her alone.  Doyle will look after her."

            "I suppose," the young man said, letting Joyce hook her arm in his and edge him towards the door.

            "The cherry's are in blossom," Doyle heard Joyce say as she lead the young man down the street towards heaven's great park.  "And the blueberry's are ripe.  We could bring a dish back for her."

            Once they were gone, Doyle eased himself into the comfortable chair at the side of Cordelia's bed, and reached forward, taking her hand in his.  

            "Hey princess," he said softly.  "Open you're eyes."

            And, as any sleeping beauty would for her prince charming, Cordelia woke up.  "Doyle," she said warmly, her pail face slipping into a smile.

            "How do you feel?"  He asked, smiling back at her.

            "Ugh," Cor said with a grimace.  "like salt water taffy."

            "Taffy?"  Doyle laughed.

            "All stretched," she explained.  "And turned on top of myself."

            "It'll pass," Doyle promised.  "Soon as you're heart stops you'll be free, and everything will be clear."

            "Will it stop hurting too?"  She asked, letting a little bit of the pain her body back on earth endured slip into her voice.

            "No," Doyle assured her quickly.  "You won't feel anything, well, anything bad.  No pain, no fear, nothing but warm fuzzies and sunshine."

            Cordelia closed her eyes and smiled. "And you."

            Doyle chuckled, slightly embarrassed at being included with the reasons Heaven was heavenly.  He looked away and took a deep breath, "I talked to your friend, Gunn."

            "You convinced him to let me go?"

            "Yeah."

            "What about the other part," Cordelia asked anxiously.  "I mean, will They let me go back one last time?"

            "It took some finagling," Doyle said.  "But I did get an audience with Him."

            "And?"

            "He approves.  Twenty four hours before you leave that world forever, you'll be as fit and able as ever you where."

            "Good," Cordy sighed.  "There's so much that I couldn't say and then . . ."

            "They understand," Doyle assured her.

            "No, they _know_, but they need help to understand."

            Doyle smiled fondly down at her, "That's you all over, Cordy.  Tellin' people how and what they should be."

            "Is it my fault that I'm constantly surrounded by morons who can't manage their own life?"  She asked with a playful glint in her eye.

            "Well, all things considered, I'd have to say yes," Doyle responded dryly.

            "Yeah, right, like the PTB's didn't plan it all so I was where I was when I was."

            "Try sayin' that ten times fast."

            "With you too," Cordelia insisted.  "Fate knew what she was doing."

            "Yeah, I've been meaning to speak with her about that," Doyle said.  "More then once, I think she might have been drinking on the job."

            "And we could never allow that," Cordelia said mockingly.

            "Hey, I was always perfectly sober while I was working."

            "While you were working?" Cordy laughed.  "When did you work?"

            "I did some quality helping of the hopeless while I was with Angel, thank you very much."

            "Like what."

            "Who taught you how to use the computer?" Doyle asked.  "Then there was all the research, which we did together.  And, um, there was that time I stayed with that girl Melissa all day through work.  And I helped break into the police station –"

            "I broke the window."

            "And I, quite bravely, moved the trash cans under it so we could climb up."

            Cordy chuckled.  "You saved me form a vampire once."

            "Yeah," Doyle remembered fondly.  "That would have been great if only you hadn't caught me, quite embarrassingly, reliving the moment."

            "Oh, it was kinda cute."

            "Yeah?"

            "Yeah," Cordy assured him.

            "The things you learn."

            "You wanna learn something else."

            "I suppose it depends on what you plan on teaching me."

            "Doyle," she said, catching his eyes.  "You were always my hero."

            Even though the brown orbs were only a shadow of what they would become as soon as she transcended, there was still a powerful soul behind them and such a heart felt confession made Doyle shudder.  "Really?" he asked, feeling a little hoarse.

            Cordy nodded.  "I always wanted to tell you that."

            "That's saying something," Doyle said with a nervous laugh.  "Your life being uncommonly full of heroes."

            "Yeah," Cordy said.  "Buffy and her crew: even Xander had some really heroic moments.  And then Angel, Wesley and Gunn."

            "The Groodslugg," Doyle prompted.

            "Groo," Cordy sighed, drawing his name out as if she were considering it carefully.  "You know, he worshiped me."

            "Yeah, I know."

            "I always thought I'd love being worshiped."

            "But it wasn't enough."

            "Not by half," Cordy said, shaking her head.  She turned back and looked at him, catching the man with her eyed.  "Do you want to know why _you_ were my hero, and not any of the others?"

            "Yeah," Doyle said, truly baffled.  He was no warrior; his heroism had always been of the desperate sort. 

            "Because you were the one that changed me," Cordy said.

            Doyle swallowed, "I didn't mean to give you the visions.  That just happened."

            "That's not what I meant," she said.  "Or it's not all I meant.  You gave up everything for us, for Angel and me, and those demons.  I mean, you really sacrificed and . . . well, you made me want to be a hero too."

            Doyle laughed, "Don't think that just 'cause I died I didn't see what was goin' on.  You tried everything to get rid of those visions."

            "Well, yeah, ok, at first," Cordy admitted.  "I was traumatized, overwhelmed with grief, and guilt.  But as soon as I calmed down a little bit, regained some focus, I understood.  I finally saw what everybody else had seen for, like ever."

            "And what was that?"

            "If I'm not going to be the hero, who would?"  She answered.  "That's what you taught me.  That's why I love you."

            "I think that's the highest complement anyone's ever paid me."

            "And all you had to do was die," Cordy said.

            "Gee, I should have thought of that earlier. I could have been well admired for years and quite respectable by the time we should have met."

            Cordy laughed, and suddenly winced in pain.  

            "You ok?" Doyle asked, leaning forward and putting a comforting hand on her face.  She was squeezing his other hand so tightly that, were they not in heaven, it would have hurt.  

            "They put another needle in my arm," She whimpered.  "The nurse isn't very good."

            "It'll all be over soon, Princess," Doyle promised her.  

            "Good," Cordy said, closing her eyes.  "I can't wait to go out and start doing good things again."

            "You will."

            "And you'll be with me, right?" she asked, turning to Doyle and looking a little frightened.  "Right there? By my side?"

            "Wouldn't leave it for the world," he assured her.  

            "Humm," She muttered, closing her eyes.  "I missed you so much."

            "Get some rest," Doyle advised.  "You'll die soon, and then you and I, princess, will start really living."

The end


End file.
